(And Somewhere Along the Way, We Started Treating It Like a Coupon)
Let me get this out of the way early so nobody mistakes me for the guy yelling at clouds.
I know NIL is here to stay. I know players have always been paid. I know the system wasn’t pure, holy, or wrapped in a choir robe stitched by Sandy Bell in the UK Compliance office.
I’m not naïve. I’m just… disappointed. And there’s a difference.
Believe me, this isn’t about money. It’s about what money replaced.
Back in the day—cue the violin music, please—the scholarship was the prize. The scholarship was the golden ticket. It was the thing you earned, protected, and quietly understood could change the trajectory of your life.
Now? The sheepskin is an afterthought. A line item. Something you get thrown in after the collective wires the cash.
Wake up everyone! College sports didn’t just evolve. It inverted.
Players used to come to Kentucky for the name on the front of the jersey and hope—pray, even—that one day the name on the back might matter. Now the name on the back is everything, and the front is just a temporary billboard.
We’ve turned student-athletes into short-term mercenaries, and then we act surprised when loyalty evaporates faster than Vince Marrow’s blue wardrobe.
Again, I’m not anti-player. I’m anti-illusion. College sports has become all smoke and mirrors.
What bothers me isn’t that athletes are making money. It’s that we’ve somehow convinced them—and ourselves—that money is the point, not the fruit of hard-earned labor. We’ve normalized entitlement at warp speed. It no longer happens over multiple years of eligibilty. It’s now bestowed instantly.
A freshman hasn’t played a minute and already knows his “market value.” He doesn’t ask, How can I grow here? He asks, What’s my next leverage point? That’s not empowerment. That’s living one transaction at a time.
And the collateral damage of this lunacy? The college education—the very thing that was supposed to be the great equalizer—has been reduced to background noise.
Let me offer a confession from a man who looks suspiciously like a retired orthodontist with opinions.
My education made me rich. Not Warren Buffet-rich. Not even NIL-rich. But life-rich. It gave me a profession. It gave me options. It gave me the ability to fail and pivot and fail again without falling through the floorboards of society.
My college education wasn’t just about attending classes. It rewarded me with time—time to grow up, mess up, learn accountability, and figure out who I was when nobody was handing me a check. Let it be known that no booster ever Venmo’d me for showing up to Biology 101.
Now we’re telling kids—explicitly and implicitly—that education is optional, temporary, and secondary to their “brand.” That’s not progress. That’s negligent at best—and destructive at worst.
Here’s the part nobody wants to say out loud: If the scholarship no longer matters, the university no longer matters. And if the university no longer matters, then college sports becomes minor-league professional sports without contracts, guardrails, or accountability.
Which is exactly where we’re headed.
You can’t build culture on one-year leases.
You can’t preach loyalty while negotiating exits.
You can’t sell tradition to people shopping for the next upgrade.
And you certainly can’t pretend the system will hold when the foundation—education itself—has been hollowed out. When the value of the scholarship is cheapened, the value of the institution crumbles. When institutions crumble, so does the illusion that this was ever about anything more than money. And when the illusion dies, so does the sport we thought we loved.
I still watch. I still care. I still write. I still hope—perhaps foolishly—that the pendulum swings back toward balance instead of breaking loose entirely.
But make no mistake: this is doomsday not because athletes are getting paid—but because we’ve taught them that nothing else is worth valuing.
And when education becomes optional, everything downstream collapses. I don’t want to go backward. I want us to remember what was worth protecting as we move forward.
Happy New Year!
Now, please excuse me while I go ice my knee, check my blood pressure, and remind myself I’m not yelling at clouds.
I’m yelling at the future—because I still care about it.
This article was originally written for distribution through Nolan Group Media publications.
Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. Explore his latest, Whining For Posterity, and all his books at Amazon.
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